


breathe through it

by brinnanza



Series: The More the Merrier [5]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s05e13 Hawk's Nightmare, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Missing Scene, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 13:39:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11601774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: “Come on, Beej,” Hawkeye wheedles, already resetting the chessboard. “One more round. It’s no fair to win big and split.”It’s late, and they’re both due in surgery in the morning. Earlier if Hawkeye’s bad luck holds out. Frank’s busy pretending to be a doctor in Post Op and most of the camp is asleep, which would be a fine idea if the thought of joining them didn’t turn Hawkeye’s palms into Niagara Falls.





	breathe through it

**Author's Note:**

> I watched 5x13 for the first time and then immediately sat down and wrote this, because one chat with Sidney isn't gonna miraculously cure the problem and also uh I wanted it. Be the fic you want to see in the world, I guess. Self indulgence is my writing raison d'être.
> 
> Thanks to Zeta for beta reading and getting me into MASH in the first place. Title pulled out of the Weepies "Not Your Year", which is pretty thematically appropriate I think.

“Come on, Beej,” Hawkeye wheedles, already resetting the chessboard. “One more round. It’s no fair to win big and split.”

It’s late, and they’re both due in surgery in the morning. Earlier if Hawkeye’s bad luck holds out. Frank’s busy pretending to be a doctor in Post Op and most of the camp is asleep, which would be a fine idea if the thought of joining them didn’t turn Hawkeye’s palms into Niagara Falls.

He pushes a pawn forward with the tip of his finger and then looks up at BJ with his most persuasive puppy dog eyes. He’s had good luck with them so far -- they’ve netted him three dalliances with Nurse Abel, and it would have been a fourth if not for such trivial complications as incoming wounded.

“Hawkeye,” BJ says with the flat, patient tone that means he isn’t playing along this time and doesn’t think Hawkeye should be either. His eyes are shuttered with pity that he probably thinks is passing for concern.

“What, I already made an opening move!” Hawkeye says, abandoning the puppy dog eyes and rushing headlong into heartfelt innocence. He gives BJ a long, slow blink and then tilts his chin down so he can look up through his eyelashes. “Did you want to go first this time?”

“ _Hawkeye_ ,” BJ says again.

“ _BJ_ ,” Hawkeye says in the exact same tone. There’s a line in the sand up ahead, the place where his jokes don’t even work on him anymore, and he’d really like to put it off as long as possible. Forever, ideally. Just jog in place for the rest of his life until the line backs off or he drops. He’s had years of practice being exhausted at this point -- he’s practically board certified in the subject.

BJ pushes the pawn back onto its starting square. “Goodnight, Hawkeye.” He starts to get up, but Hawkeye darts a hand to grab his wrist and he pauses, glancing back and forth between Hawkeye’s face and his hand.

“Just--” Hawkeye says, a little bit of desperation creeping into his voice. He clears his throat and tries again. “One more game. Come on. I’ll go to sleep after that.” Well, he won’t, Hawkeye thinks, but he’ll let BJ sleep anyway. Maybe he’ll take a stroll around the camp, sans sleepwalking this time. Maybe he’ll write a letter to his father or short sheet Frank’s bunk again. Maybe he’ll just stare at the canvas ceiling of the tent for a few hours, counting all the trees he can remember in Crabapple Cove.

BJ lets out a sigh and pushes his hand through his hair. “Alright.” Hawkeye goes to move the pawn again, grin lighting up his face, but BJ blocks his hand. “Not chess. I got an idea. Stand over there a minute, will you?” He gestures vaguely towards the door.

“What, no cab fare?” Hawkeye quips, but curiosity gets him to his feet. Being upright nearly sends him right back down to the floor, but his head stops doing the merengue after a long moment and some very deliberate blinking. BJ waves him out of the way and he shuffles over to Frank’s corner of the tent, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his robe. He lifts his eyebrows. “Well?”

BJ holds up one finger and flashes Hawkeye a grin that’s a solid six out of ten on the sincerity scale. “You’ll see,” he says. 

His mouth resettles into a firm line, and he refocuses on the task at hand, which appears to be rearranging the furniture. He moves the table with the chess set to the other side of his cot, and Hawkeye’s chair follows it. He pauses at the still, studying it for a long moment with a puzzled twist in his lip. Then, very carefully, he turns the table ninety degrees and scoots it backwards.

The still wobbles dangerously. “I think we’re in the wrong country for feng shui,” Hawkeye says, keeping an eye on it. Some days it’s the only thing that keeps him going (not to mention, his traitorous, sleep-deprived brain adds, it’s the only thing he has left of Trapper).

BJ ignores the color commentary in favor of yanking his cot around the other side of the still. He pushes it up alongside Hawkeye’s and then redistributes the blankets so they fall over both beds. When he’s finished, he gives the whole thing a definitive nod and turns back to Hawkeye.

There is a different sort of line here, and Hawkeye can’t help backing up from it. “I know what they say, but I don’t think size is the problem here.”

“Get over here,” BJ says, rolling his eyes.

Hawkeye’s pretty sure he’s dreaming. He’s skipped right past idyllic childhood memories and landed in what is, without a doubt, the cruelest beginning to a nightmare he’s had yet. Because BJ is beckoning him way over the line, into enemy territory, even though he’s married and, even more incredulously, _faithful_. 

Hawkeye really does not want to get to the part with the screaming and the dying.

“I’m good,” Hawkeye says a little too quickly. “I thought I’d try it standing up. There must be something to it if it works for horses and vampires.” He crosses his arms over his chest and closes his eyes, lips spread in a grin that’s probably closer to grimace, but a wave of dizziness has him swinging out an arm to brace himself against the tent’s support beams.

BJ has clearly mastered some sort of instantaneous flight because when Hawkeye opens his eyes again, BJ is barely inches away, looking down at him with wide eyes full of concern. The whole tent sways for a second, and BJ reaches out to steady him.

“I don’t need to be a doctor to tell you you need some sleep,” BJ says gently. “But since I am, I can make it an order.”

Hawkeye’s eye slip closed of their own accord and he leans into BJ’s grasp. “You get a promotion I don’t know about?” he says, but the words come out a little muzzy. He forces his eyes open again.

“From Captain to General Surgeon,” BJ says, a fond smile on his mouth. He slides one arm around Hawkeye’s shoulders, drawing a shiver in its wake, and tugs him toward the cots. “Come on, before I have to bust you back down to nurse.”

“You think there’s still room in their tent?”

BJ chuckles, a soft rumble against Hawkeye’s side. “I can’t believe you’d leave me with Frank.” He leans down to pull back the blankets, his arm slipping down to rest around Hawkeye’s waist, and then he gives Hawkeye a gentle push forward.

“Wait,” Hawkeye says, turning in BJ’s grasp. There’s a tremor starting in his hand that’s bad news for a professional hand user and his heart has started doing the cha-cha. “I think I forgot to brush my teeth.”

“Do it in the morning,” BJ says.

“I forgot to brush your teeth?”

“I’m minty fresh,” BJ says. “You want a sniff?”

Hawkeye wrinkles up his nose, and BJ ushers him forward again. He tries to resist, but BJ is stronger than he looks (or maybe Hawkeye is more tired than he feels). Hawkeye’s knees buckle, dropping him unceremoniously onto the bed with his legs hanging off the side. Now that he’s horizontal (sort of), exhaustion bears down on him like a weight and drags his eyelids closed. Sleep is a heartbeat away, and the thought sends a lightning strike of adrenaline shooting through his chest.

“Beej,” Hawkeye says, hauling himself up on one elbow. “BJ, listen--”

BJ picks up Hawkeye’s feet and tucks them under the blanket. It knocks Hawkeye off balance and his shoulder drops, dumping him back down into the bed. “I was just gonna leave them there,” he grumbles. “I’m probably gonna be using them soon enough anyway. BJ--”

BJ pulls the blankets up over Hawkeye’s shoulder and gives his leg a pat. “Trust me,” he says, though his customary light tone is a little too forced. “I’m a doctor.”

“Big deal,” Hawkeye says into his pillow. His eyes are closed without his permission again. “So am I. So is Frank, allegedly.”

The dark gets a little darker, and there’s a rustle of clothing. BJ’s cot creaks as he gets into bed, and then he’s so close that Hawkeye can feel the heat of his skin, a crackle of something electric and anticipatory in the mere inches between them. He’s not sure whether it’s that or the exhaustion making the tent do its best impression of a carousel.

The blankets shift and then BJ is touching him again, gentle pressure on his shoulder so he rolls onto his side. Even if Hawkeye wanted to resist, he’s not sure he could. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, they’ve all given up the ghost on saying no. He lets BJ move him, trying to convince himself that opening his eyes is probably a more successful way to stay awake than closing them.

BJ shifts around for a moment, rearranging blankets and his pillow, and then he settles in close, his chest against Hawkeye’s back. He drops his arm around Hawkeye, palm flat against Hawkeye’s chest, and tugs him back far enough that he can feel the rise and fall of BJ’s breaths.

Now Hawkeye knows he’s dreaming. Because he’s a pretty tactile guy, as any of the nurses will attest to, but this is somehow so much more intimate than brief assignations in the supply tent, affairs BJ has notably not partaken in.

“Will you still respect me in the morning?” Hawkeye says because he can’t help it. He tries to turn and look at BJ, but BJ holds him steady.

“Then I’d have to respect you now,” BJ says, but his voice is too fond for the joke. “Just breathe with me, okay? In for seven, out for seven.”

“My lucky number,” Hawkeye mumbles, but his breathing slows to match BJ’s automatically. “Didn’t know you did a psych rotation.”

BJ’s slow exhalation stirs the hair at the back of Hawkeye’s neck. “Peggy had a few nightmares,” he says eventually. “Said this helped.”

“Mmm,” says Hawkeye. He casts an idle net for a wittier response, but his mind keeps stalling out halfway through. Instead, he holds on to the steady rhythm of BJ’s breathing, drifting out to sea and back to shore until sleep pulls him under.

\--

They’d gone down to the beach to skip rocks, him and Martin Ellis and Ruthie Goldberg. The sky is bright and blue and endless, and it’s warm enough for t-shirts but too cold for swimming -- the perfect summer day for an adventure. Martin’s down by the shoreline, scouting for flat rocks. He dashes up the beach when the water gets too close, and Hawkeye and Ruthie giggle from a safe distance away.

“Check it out!” Martin calls, holding up a rock the size of his fist. It’s slate grey, but the sun glints off shiny specks on the surface.

“You gonna throw it or what?” Ruthie yells back, mouth spread in a grin. The words whistle through a gap in her teeth, and Hawkeye thinks he might love her a little bit.

The tide is coming in. Each wave laps a little closer to Martin’s heels, but he doesn’t move, just keeps holding his rock up to the sun, watching the light bounce off of the sand, eyes screwed up against the glare.

Water rushes around Martin’s sneakers. It’s too early in the season; the water’s got to be freezing, but it keeps coming, the roar of the waves getting louder and louder. It’s too fast, faster than should be possible, dragging Martin out with it while he screams for Hawkeye. Ruthie’s screaming too, grabbing onto his arm and screaming, “Hawkeye! Hawkeye, do something!”

\--

Hawkeye jerks awake halfway through a scream. The ocean is still roaring in his ears, drowning out everything except Martin’s cries for help. He has to get to the beach, get to Martin before it’s too late--

“Shh, Hawk, it’s just a dream,” BJ is saying, so close to Hawkeye’s ear that he can feel the puff of breath on each word. The hand on his chest is moving in slow, soothing circles. “Breathe, come on, just breathe.”

Awareness slams into Hawkeye like a mortar shell. He kicks at the blankets and struggles out of BJ’s embrace, only BJ won’t let him go. He has to call Crabapple Cove -- Martin had bought a house on the shore a few years back. He has to know -- he has to--

“Hawkeye, _breathe_ ,” BJ commands, yanking him back against his chest. There’s a steely edge in his voice that Hawkeye has only heard once or twice, and it doesn’t leave room for argument.

Hawkeye tries to fit one in anyway. “Let me go! I gotta call him!” He tries to wrench his shoulder free. “BJ!” A sob rises in his throat, and he claws at BJ’s arm. “BJ!”

“Shh,” BJ murmurs, impossibly gentle. He slips his free arm around Hawkeye’s chest, and reaches up to stroke a hand over Hawkeye’s hair with the other, still murmuring soft sounds.

Abruptly, all the fight goes out of him. Forever, if he’s lucky. God, he’s so tired of fighting, so tired of endless war of one kind or another. It’s never over, and it never _stops_ , and Hawkeye feels like he’s the one drowning now, lungs burning and flooded with salt water.

“Just breathe,” BJ says again as Hawkeye collapses against him. “In and out, nice and slow.” 

Hawkeye ducks his head, leaning his cheek on BJ’s arm, and drags in a shuddering, gasping breath. It’s too fast and too shallow -- the distant part of his brain that is somehow managing to still be objective identifies it as dangerously close to hyperventilating.

“With me,” BJ says. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly so Hawkeye can feel the rise and fall. “Come on, I got you.”

The next breath is slower, closer to BJ’s rhythm. The one after that manages to be a full seven count, and BJ smiles against his hair. “Good,” BJ says. “Good, just like that.”

They breathe together in the dark. Outside, there are birds and insects and the footsteps of the night patrol, and somewhere beyond that, there is gunfire and shelling and screaming, but Hawkeye just listens to BJ breathe. It holds him together just a little longer, until his heart settles down to what passes for normal and his breaths are no longer full of shrapnel.

Embarrassment is something of a foreign concept to Hawkeye, shameless as he is, but he still braces for it when he pulls away from BJ just enough to turn around. There’s no judgment in BJ’s eyes, just warm affection, and the last of the tension finally seeps out of Hawkeye’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” he says after a while. His voice is still a little gravelly and he’s tempted to make a joke to lighten the mood, but BJ offers him a sympathetic half-smile, and Hawkeye decides it can keep.

“Anytime,” BJ says. He reaches up to brush a lock of hair off of Hawkeye’s forehead, and for a moment, Hawkeye can push it all away again, Korea and meatball surgery and too many torn up kids. It’s like a low tide, farther out to sea, past a shore littered with the glittering sharp edges of broken shells.

It gets him through the night.


End file.
